


Duty

by writingsbysam



Series: The Recollections of Our Torn Youth [2]
Category: Ancient Greek Religion & Lore, Original Work
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Best Friends, F/M, M/M, Past Lives, Sacrifice, Sad, Self-Sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-07
Updated: 2020-02-07
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:00:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22595167
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingsbysam/pseuds/writingsbysam
Summary: A different ending to "Maria", a more complete version. I wrote this for Social 9. A tale of a girl who will do anything for her people.
Relationships: Achilles/Iphigenia (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Achilles/Patroclus of Opus (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore)
Series: The Recollections of Our Torn Youth [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1621753
Kudos: 8





	Duty

Dear Theodore, 

**_Duty,_ ** It’s a cold word, cold like steel, cold as the clanging of swords, and cold as the iron throne it stems from. We know duty well, don’t we my prince? My mother taught me duty. She taught me the bitterness of our fates. She taught me how to be a good wife, a great queen, but more importantly a good person. My mother named me Maria, after herself, and I pray that I will gain one ounce of her devotion to her people. 

It is unusual for an Empress to rule alone, but my father died a few years ago, and my mother had been ruling the kingdom anyway. (It was her birthright, not my father’s.) Ruling took a toll on her, and her health slowly declined. Until one day, on what we assumed was her death bed, she told me of the sacrifice I must make,

“Maria, my darling daughter Maria,” a cough and weak sputter, “listen to me, there is a boy who lives in England. The Crown Prince, Theodore. You’ll like him. Just stay together, thrones are dreadfully lonely places, my dear. He will never love you, Maria. Be his friend.” 

“I promise, I promise I will make our kingdoms great,” my voice broke tears streamed like hailstones down my cheeks, “Mama- will I? Will I see you again?” But it was too late, and with a thousand words left unsaid my mother laid in bed, one last time. 

Her public funeral was held in Vienna, an empty casket paraded around the crowded town square, shouts of “the queen is dead, long live the king!”. The mood was sombre but in general optimistic, however, they didn’t know my brother quite like I did. 

My mothers’ private funeral was held at Hohensalzburg Castle, on the grounds where my mother would spend the summers. There seemed to be no sun that day, even though it was shining brightly, the colour had faded the second Mama left my world. 

My brother Joseph was a cruel man, and if it was not the line of succession I would have taken the throne myself. Anything to prevent a wicked man from taking the throne, and anything for my people. (A cold wash of realisation came over me, they would soon no longer be my people, just my brothers’.) My brother stormed into my chambers two days after Mama died, yelling and screaming, 

“Maria! This is your last day at this wretched court! Take your stuff and leave,  **_now._ ** I’m sure the English would love to have you.” 

“Joseph! Please don’t make me leave, let me go to Hohensalzburg one more time?” I tried to beg but he shook his head no, 

“Maria, you have to leave now. Before now the stirrings of war was just a faint unrest, an article about British spies spotted in Austria, a faint whisper on the wind. Now there are entire groups of scouts and mass panic! Maria! I am sending you away to protect you. Can’t you see!” he screamed, and he screamed for what seemed like five minutes. It was anger, it was retribution, and it felt like he was blaming me. For our mother, for her death. 

There was a void that filled me, that swallowed me whole, that made me ache, to dance, to sing, to somehow let all this pain out. I felt as though white had turned to crimson, and marriage veils no longer looked so holy. I imagined what life is away from here and I imagine myself a prized heifer, laid on the altar to slaughter. 

Our sacrifices were the same. One a sacrifice to the gods, and one a goddamn sacrifice to the British. Maybe we were laid upon the altar for something more holy than ourselves, for something greater, for something  **_more_ ** . My marriage was my sacrifice, and like Iphigenia, and the millions of others, I went willingly to the altar, head held high. “ **_How sweet it is to look upon the light”._ **

My sacrifice took place that evening, at the doors of the church in Vienna. A proxy stood in for Theodore, my uncle Ferdinand. Uncle was kind and jolly. He had deep blue eyes that sparkled in the sun, and I was happy that he was chosen to be the proxy, at least it was someone I knew. 

It was a grand affair, and yet I felt as though there was no one there at all, that I was just standing among the ghosts of people who were no longer mine. I felt like I was floating, not on air, not in a happy way, but floating on numbness, on that same cursed emptiness that had consumed my every thought since my mother’s death. 

I shut down. For an entire month, on the carriage ride to the port in France where we would cross the English channel, I think I hardly ate, drank, or slept. I was a husk of the girl I used to be. And now they want me to rule a country? The only wish I had was for this emptiness, for this pain, for this heart wrenching sorrow, to leave me. All I did was write in those days, on the nature of daylight, of the cruelty of growing up, of anger and pain, and maybe one day I will write of hope again. It appears that those days are too far away. 

We arrive in England on a dark grey day and for the first time since my mother’s death my inner world resembles the real world. The moorland was empty and seemingly barren after leaving the town. It was eerily still, no birds sang, no winds blew, and no other horses were heard. Almost as though we had passed into Avalon, and the realms beyond. I had heard stories of princesses getting lost in the mists, taken by some Fae that was smitten with her. (And for a second I wanted those stories to be true, any end would be a better end than this one. Or so it seemed.) 

It took us months to reach our destination from Vienna, and by the time we had reached London I was ready to walk to my fate, head held high. I was ready to meet the man who I had never even seen his face. (You were the bright spot of this arranged marriage, Theo. Even if we never truly loved each other in that way. You were my best friend.)

Our wedding was at Westminster Abbey, like all of the most important events. It was grand and I felt less like I was marching towards my doom, and more like marching towards my freedom. My dress was white and I could no longer see blood stained altars dancing in my vision.

Iphigenia rests inside me, and in that moment I was not a deer going unwillingly to slaughter, I was a princess choosing to become someone, something more. I was Kore from the stories of way before Homer, where she walked into the underworld back straight, face to the sky, going to comfort the souls of the dead. She went in a princess and returned an eternal queen. 

I will never be a nameless sacrifice, I will be a queen, and the greatest of them all. 

**_I will be Maria Antonia, the greatest Queen of England_ **


End file.
